


Waiting for Safety

by From_Scotland_with_Love



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Intervention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 03:46:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22149550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/From_Scotland_with_Love/pseuds/From_Scotland_with_Love
Summary: Reeling from the events of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Harry returns to school after a tortuously long summer a distant, angry boy. A concerned Professor Dumbledore will not allow it to continue. One-shot, hurt/comfort, Dumbledore/Harry mentor relationship. AU.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31
Collections: Platonic Teacher-Student Relationships





	Waiting for Safety

There was a distinct chill in the air; embraced and incubated by the ancient stones of the castle even this far above the dungeons. The second floor corridor belied its arctic state by allowing the bright evening sunshine to stream in thick bands across the width of the bustling space, the autumnal sunlight offering no warmth to those students who hustled through in newly donned winter robes. The noise of overlapping conversation, laughing and the steady drum of boot clad feet on the worn flagstones echoed around Harry as he made his way steadily to the Great Hall.

Hermione and Ron trailed a respectable distance behind him, something they had done since returning to school two weeks before. It had been a gradually lengthening space, both physically and metaphorically; and one that Harry had both initiated and encouraged with his behaviour since his first days back in class. He felt their concern, even appreciated it on some level, but as he was more prone to anger than care these days he felt that keeping a wide berth was benefiting everyone.

It wasn't only his friends that had experienced his lack of patience and conspicuously absent sense of humour these past weeks. He had earned himself two detentions with Filch and an extra twelve inch essay from McGonagall, to say nothing of the twenty points he had lost his house. No-one had mentioned the house points of course – and Harry suspected that his house mates were a little afraid of what reaction they might provoke.

What vexed Harry more than the distance from his friends, the detentions and his facility to see red at the simplest provocation; was his complete lack of care about any of it. He felt no guilt, or shame or worry. It was simply too exhausting. He felt numb most days, withdrawn; and if his hand strayed occasionally to the new pink scar tissue marring his arm it served only to remind those closest to him of the tragic and frightening events which had transpired last term. A reminder that, rightly or wrongly, encouraged his friends and teachers to grant him the space he so forcibly projected; if not demanded.

Of course, an ailing appetite and disturbed and restless sleeping pattern were not helping. Most days, Harry picked at his food. He would have preferred to avoid the Great Hall completely, had he the choice, but Professor Dumbledore had curbed that particular inclination after the third occurrence by making attendance at all meals mandatory unless given express permission from ones Head of House. His sleep was a gruelling assault course; bouts of deep and dreamless rest disturbed by vivid and frightening nightmares – or recollections. The graveyard and tomb of Voldemort's ancestor was a real as though he, Harry had been transported there from his bed; the dank, mulchy sent of decay and rotting vegetation still strong in his nostrils when he woke trembling, sweating and, Merlin help him, terrified in the wee hours of the morning.

The level of excited chatter amplified as Harry neared the Great Hall, the scent of boiled vegetables, honey glazed ham and freshly baked bread stirring his reluctant appetite. A slow moving procession of students from all years shuffled in front of him, bottle-necked by the mammoth doors leading to the hall. Harry was swallowed by the crowd as more students shuffled behind him, and felt his heartbeat spike when black cloaks pressed in from all sides. He turned his head, looking instinctively for Ron or Hermione, his faithful shadows, but was blocked by three tall Ravenclaws directly behind him, seventh years that looked down at him with developing frowns of concern and enquiry.

Harry breathed quickly, feeling claustrophobic, something he had rarely experienced before partly due to his confinement growing up. Black cloaks, too many black cloaks, brushed against him, bringing to mind his nightmare from the night before, wherein the circle of Death Eaters standing like some living Stonehenge had instead moved forward, surrounding him so densely that he had been starved for air. Panic and adrenaline bore down on him and with a gasp of desperation he barrelled through the many bodies, ignoring the angry shouts and startled exclamations of his peers. Once free, he paused to breathe deeply, running his clammy palms over the rough material of his own black robe, ignoring the mutterings and whispers behind him. He twitched when he heard his name being called and turned slightly to see Hermione picking her way through the many bodies to reach him.

He wanted to be alone. Despite his momentary need to reach his friends, now that he was free of the throng he wanted to seek solitude. He turned sharply, intending to march in the opposite direction, but instead collided with the solid mass of Zacharias Smith. Both boys staggered from the contact and Harry may have fallen on his backside were it not for the reflexes he had honed on his broomstick.

"Watch it, Potter!" Zacharias barked, scowling as he righted his clothing. Harry glowered back, the earlier dump of adrenaline sparking back to life in his veins.

"If you weren't standing trying to get Hannah's attention I wouldn't have run into you!" Harry growled back, his cheeks growing pink. Hermione had reached his side and Harry could feel her slightly alarmed gaze darting back and forth between the two of them. Zacharias' face developed crimson splotches across his jaw as the aforementioned girl shuffled closer, joining the inquisitive crowd who had paused to watch the developing spectacle.

"Yeah? Well maybe you should have Madam Pomfrey check those glasses; they're obviously bloody wonky if you can't see someone standing right in front of you!"

Zacharias blinked in shock as he righted himself, his chest still tingling from where Harry's hands had roughly pushed him back a few steps. Feeling the anticipatory and excited stares from the gathering crowd, Zach narrowed his eyes and quickly advanced, using the forward motion to add to the strength of his shove as he returned the gesture. Zacharias heard the exclamations of those around him and sensed their animated encouragement but his concentration was ripped back to the object of his antagonism when Harry rocked back from his stumble and launched himself at him.

Harry wrapped his hands in the folds of Zacharias' wool robe as they staggered sideways, the shouts and jeers of their classmates effectively drowning out the grunts and panted breaths of both boys as they fought. Harry felt a glancing blow on his cheek and returned the favour by driving his elbow into the taller boy's middle when the opportunity presented itself. Hands descended on him, pulling at his robe, and he faintly heard Hermione and Ron's voices above the general din. Zach's sudden stumble sent both boys to the stone flooring and Harry hissed in pain when his knuckles scraped across the unforgiving surface, his hand trapped under the weight of his heavier opponent. A struggle began for the dominant position, both boys wrestling with the weight of the other, pushing, pulling and grunting with their efforts.

A hush fell across the crowd, animated chatter and heckling tailing off like a radio slowly being turned to mute. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and Flitwick appeared through the parting gathering, their solemn and concerned gazes taking in the assembled students.

With a surprised gasp, Harry felt himself propelled away from Zach, his hands clutching empty handfuls of air as he slid across the worn flagstones. He jarred to a stop at the same moment Zach did and Harry took some comfort in the teenager's matching expression of astonishment when he glanced that way.

"I would suggest that students who wish to partake of their meal make their way calmly inside. Immediately." Professor McGonagall's accented voice cut across the tense silence and her strident tone had students from all houses eagerly turning their back on their previous entertainment. Harry used the distraction to scoop his bag from where it had fallen as he stood and slung it back across his shoulder, avoiding the eye contact he could feel was wanted. He shuffled back a few steps, creating a little distance from where he had been magically propelled, at the Headmaster's feet.

"Fillius, I will leave Mr Smith in your care. Minerva? If you would be so good as to escort Harry's friends to their seats?" Professor Dumbledore's instructions may have been directed to his colleagues, but his steady gaze did not leave Harry. Harry's own gaze studied the bloodied scratches across his knuckles, the fingers of his good hand picking at specs of dirt and grit which stuck to the shining wounds. He did not look up when he heard the shuffling of feet, nor when he heard Ron and Hermione's troubled protests as they were led away from the scene. He did jolt when the Great Hall doors closed with a muffled boom, leaving a startling silence that emphasised Harry's still unsteady breathing.

Growing agitated by the continuing silence and wanting nothing more than to find his previously desired solitude, Harry raised his head and finally met the cerulean eyes of the Hogwarts Headmaster. Finding the calm, collected and all-too-knowing twinkle within the wizard's gaze did little to comfort Harry and he shifted awkwardly, wishing the man would say his peace so he could be on his way.

"Can I go?" Harry asked twenty seconds later, impatience colouring his tone. He frowned as Dumbledore stepped forward, his half-moon glasses catching the surrounding light.  
"I think, Harry, that you and I are long overdue a conversation. One which would be more suited to the privacy of my office." Harry shook his head the tiniest degree, tension continuing to thrum across the muscles of his back, neck and shoulders.

The Headmaster's broad, heavy hand settled across the steel banded muscles on Harry's shoulder and prompted him into reluctant step. With each passing archway, tapestry and highly shined suit of armour Harry's anxiety grew, morphing into frustrated annoyance when the guiding hand on his shoulder refused to shift, tethering him to his Professor. Familiar anger blossomed through him; a well of black feelings that was almost comforting, he had grown so dependent on them.

They had reached the long corridor that lead to the stone gargoyle when Harry's temper finally snapped; he jerked away from the Headmaster, dislodging the trapping hand, his agitated breathing and stiff movement the only other indication of his state of mind.

"I know the way!" he snarled irritably, striding ahead of the Professor. He made it five steps before stronger hands descended on both his shoulders, making him jump a little, but he had no time to react further when he was bodily turned and pressed forward, the hands encompassing his shoulders holding him firmly in place. Harry blinked at his new position, dizzy from the manoeuvre, and found his nose mere centimetres from the grey stone wall he was now facing.

A tense moment passed, filled only with the harsh puffs of breath issuing from Harry's nose as comprehension dawned.

"I'm not a bloody child!" his wobbly voice complained, his attempts to turn thwarted by the surprisingly strong wizard behind him, whose hands had clamped firmly to the tops of Harry's arms, making escape impossible without a serious tussle. The shock and indignant ire he felt turned quickly to trepidation when Professor Dumbledore's rumbling voice sounded very close to his left ear, his previous petulance swallowed by an emerging sense of helplessness as a surge of powerful magic seemed to cloud around him, oppressive and alarming, effectively stilling his movements.

"Enough! That will do. You will stay in this position until you calm yourself. When you are composed, we will proceed directly to my office and not before. You will not be disrespectful and you will follow my instructions. Do I make myself clear?" Harry shrunk a little further, his head dipping under the stern and unusually severe tone directed at him. Dumbledore exuded calm authority, controlled power and a poise and surety that matched his age and status, making Harry feel, perhaps for the first time in his acquaintance with the revered Hogwarts Headmaster, like the untrained, immature and emotional teenager he was. 

His face flushed hotly, the blush spreading from his neck to the tips of his ears, his previous anger evaporating under the heat of it as the shock of such a firm response began to sink in. He jerkily nodded his agreement, his wild hair brushing the uneven wall.

"A verbal answer, if you please, Mr Potter." Dumbledore demanded, his thrumming voice causing the hairs on the back of Harry's neck to prickle. He swallowed uncomfortably on hearing his name so formally, his eyes beginning to burn. He did not enjoy this new found sense of intimidation of a wizard that he had for years enjoyed a friendly, informal, if somewhat unconventional relationship with. He wasn't sure he was able to speak without blubbering, which was ridiculous Harry knew. Despite the potent magic swirling around him, the firm hold on his arms and the clear anger Harry could hear in the elder wizard's voice, he knew, intellectually, that he was in no actual danger. Though having all of those things directed at him was certainly a new experience in his dealings with the Headmaster.

"Yes, sir." He managed a moment later; his voice slightly strangled.

Dumbledore's steady hands and overpowering aura left him as he was given space and Harry heard the Headmaster's soft steps retreat a few paces behind him before silence descended once more.

Discomfiture and wretchedness seeped into the space Harry's anger has previously filled. The fact he had been placed, in what was best described as a 'time-out' like a four year old was beyond mortifying and to have been placed by Dumbledore himself, a wizard renowned for his patience and wisdom and one who Harry held in very high esteem, well, it would be a wonder if Harry could ever look him in the eye again. Harry raised his hand and impatiently swiped at the wetness on his cheeks, his movement doing little but smearing the few tears which had annoyingly escaped into more prominent evidence.

He shifted his feet, the scuff loud in the quiet, and exhaled a long and hitched breath. The stone, though solid and coarse, felt comfortingly cool against his hot forehead when, a full two minutes later, he leant against it. The sweat cooling across his skin from his earlier skirmish itched but he resisted the tempting distraction, focusing instead on the scraped toes of his trainers. Long seconds slipped by and with their passing Harry felt his desolation grow. He sniffed noisily, using his sleeve to wipe away the dampness beneath his nose. With another measured, controlled breath, Harry tentatively turned, glancing through his clammy fringe at the Headmaster.

Professor Dumbledore's azure gaze was just as penetrating as it always was and Harry had the impression that it had not left him in the slow minutes that had gone by. Dumbledore was studying him closely, unbeknownst to Harry cataloguing the evidence of poor sleep, missed meals, depression and the glint of recent tears still drying on the boy's pale face. Normally such a reaction to warranted discipline would have moved him to afterwards comfort any child he had felt required his rare intervention – but the Headmaster knew that this confrontation was long overdue and any comfort would come much, much later, and so he quashed the impulse and shored his resolve, knowing that the vulnerable boy before him needed a firm guiding hand just as much as a shoulder to cry on.

The customary ease and familiarity that Harry felt whenever he was in the Headmaster's company had been replaced with an unfamiliar tension and insecurity – and perhaps a developing awareness of the wizard as more than the benign, all-knowing and kindly mentor. The wizard stood opposite him, his tall frame resting against the same stone surface that had been Harry's only view, hands clasped serenely before him, the very epitome of patience. His heavy, flamboyant robes, these ones done in emerald green jacquard silk with heavily embroidered edges, masked the wizard's natural thinness. The movement of a slight tilt of his head brought Harry's eyes to his Professor's most striking feature, his mane of bright white hair and long full beard.

His inspection of this new, somewhat intimidating and disciplinarian side to Dumbledore was cut short by the Headmaster's familiar voice, which, while no longer laced with disapproval, remained a far cry from the cheery, carefree tones the wizard usually employed.

"If you feel calm enough to continue our journey, Harry, let us proceed. If, however, you require a moment more, please feel free to take it. I am certainly in no rush." Harry squirmed again, dropping his gaze, his unusually pale-again face developing a faint blush that may have made him appear healthier were if not for the dark circles lining his eyes.

"We can go, Professor." Harry replied softly, feeling exhausted, subdued and miserable – all of which was evident to the sharp eyes of the Headmaster as he straightened from the wall and indicated Harry's forgotten school bag. Harry scooped it up and followed his Professor the short distance to the gargoyle, steadying himself with a hand on the central column when the revolving staircase carried him upwards. He closed the door softly behind him when they breached the unique, circular room and having no other instructions, allowed his bag to rest gently against the wire fronted cabinets that lined this side of the chamber. His eyes tracked Dumbledore as the elder wizard strode gracefully to the slightly bevelled shelves that surrounded his stately desk, his fingers running over the various trinkets, bottles and peculiarly shaped boxes which lived amongst the spines of ancient looking books.

"Take a seat, Harry" the Headmaster called, his attention staying on his unknown task. Harry faltered slightly, his eyes darting around the various sitting areas before deciding that, given the circumstances, the safest bet would be the hard backed chair in front of the desk.

"I know it's here somewhe….ah!" Dumbledore muttered faintly, finally shuffling from behind his desk with a narrow purple vial clutched within his hand. Harry blinked in surprise when the old wizard turned the remaining chair beside Harry to face him and sank into it, ignoring his own throne like seat behind the desk.

"Now then…" Dumbledore started, retrieving his oddly carved wand from his wide heavy sleeve. Harry watched confusedly as his professor effortlessly conjured a soft square of muslin cloth, doused it with the contents of the mysterious bottle, and, having deposited the now empty vial and his wand on the edge of the desk, finally settled his much warmer gaze on his quiet, cowed and bemused student.

"Let's get that hand cleaned up, Harry. It wouldn't do for an infection to outlast any of today's unpleasantness." He had forgotten the grazes, Harry realised. Looking down, he experimentally clenched his fist and grimaced as the puckered, glistening scrapes pulled. Dumbledore's outstretched hand switched his attention and he eased his fingers straight again as he let his palm rest on the larger, warmer Headmasters'. A tingle travelled up his arm from the contact, concentrated, familiar magic pulsing from the wrinkled, sand-papered skin beneath his own.

"I am afraid this will sting, my boy, but only for a few short seconds. It is perhaps prudent therefore for me to ask now whether you are hurt anywhere else." Dumbledore quipped, smiling softly, his eyes twinkling like highly shined topaz. Harry simply shook his head in the negative, not quite managing a smile in return after the events in the hallway but sinking a little further into his chair as previously tense muscles relaxed.

With no further fanfare, the Professor's fingers curled around Harry's own and the stained cloth was pressed firmly against the abrasions which by then had faded to a dull throb. Harry reactively drew his hand back towards himself when the dull throb reignited to a fiery, eye-watering sting, a movement which proved useless when the Headmaster, expecting such a reaction, simply strengthened his hold and pressed harder. A red, wispy vapour rose from their joined hands.

"Sshh, nearly done, Harry." Dumbledore reassured softly, as Harry, while no longer trying to free his hand, chewed his bottom lip and tapped his right foot rapidly as he rode out the hellish discomfort, his face adverted.

As promised, the sting faded in degrees until only a barely perceptible tingling remained, hard to distinguish from the comforting magical energy emanating from the Headmaster. Harry looked back in time to see the cloth evaporate with a casual flick of Dumbledore's free hand, exposing knuckles that showed no evidence of ever having been damaged.

"Good as new!" Dumbledore confirmed happily, letting Harry reclaim his hand for inspection. His jovial smile gentled as he gazed at his young student, the simple, naïve wonder of magic still evident in the boy's expression; this, despite the truly despicable and terrifying applications of power he had witnessed in his short lifespan. Albus sighed sadly, drawing the fathomless, pensive emerald eyes of the Boy who lived. Eyes which had witnessed far, far too much.

"I'm really sorry, sir." Harry apologised, following a shared minute's silence, his sincerity clear and heartfelt. And he truly was, Harry admitted. In the quiet, calming office it was startlingly easy to reflect on his actions these past weeks – and particularly his less than stellar performance the last hour or so. It had achieved nothing; not even the solitude that he had originally striven for. His friends were worried, his teachers concerned and somewhere in the castle Zacharias Smith was probably nursing a new grudge to go with his new bruises.

"Harry."

Harry snapped back from his depressing introspection at the sound of his name, reminding Harry, as he refocused on the Headmaster, of his greatest feat – earning this wizard's disapproval. That, more than anything else affected him, as evidenced by his reemerging difficulty in swallowing.

"I thank you for your contrition, my boy. I am sure there is no need to rehash the events which have led us here, but I am concerned they will be fated to be repeated if we do not address the reasons for your recent behaviour." Dumbledore gently prodded, dipping his head to gaze across the tops of his gold frame glasses.

For a few seconds, only the background sounds of the Headmaster's various silver instruments filled the silence. Their whirring and clicking overlapped the ticking of several clocks and the occasional quiet snores from the many, many portraits that lined the high, slightly curved walls. Rubbing a thumb over the newly healed skin on his hand, Harry sighed.

"It's just…" he started, his strained voice high and tremulous, his eyes on his twisting hands. Seconds slipped by, the stillness of the office reflected by the two occupants. One patient, the other conflicted.

"Cedric's…dead. Sirius is a fugitive. Voldemo….Voldemort's back. He tricked us, again! And it's only going to get worse. He's going to take up right where he left off in Godrics Hollow, killing and destroying and going after the people I care about. And it doesn't matter what protections you or anyone else puts in place, he'll find a way! Then who'll be next? Ron? Hermione? The Weasleys',You?..." Harry panted roughly, his sharp voice still echoing a little around the room. He hadn't intended to say so much he managed to acknowledge around his still swirling thoughts. He didn't want to meet the no doubt understanding gaze he could feel resting on him.

"It's better for everyone if I stay isolated." He added solemnly, with a defeated air of finality and resolve. Exhaustion, rather than ease made him slump. He pushed his glasses to his forehead with the backs of his fingers as the heels of his hands attempted to rub the grittiness from his eyes, which did little but make his myopic vision blurrier.

"To coin a muggle phrase, Harry, I'm afraid that ship has already sailed." Dumbledore interrupted the quiet, his concerned gaze on the wild mop of hair in front of him, the only part of his student's head he could see.

"Do you truly believe that Tom will suddenly cease to target those closest to you because you have chosen now to distance yourself?"

Harry blinked away the colours obscuring his vision, his face creasing in distress as he translated the meaning behind the Headmaster's words – "You've left it too late…"

Standing suddenly from the chair, breathing uneven with panic and guilt, Harry stumbled away from the desk and the man who was already rising to intercept.

"Harry…"

"I need to get away then. Away from Hogwarts, away from the Burrow, he needs to know I've left…" Harry reasoned aloud, nodding, his newly healed hands shaking as his eyes darted around the circular room as though a means of escape might present itself.

"You misunderstand me, Harry. Please, sit down and allow me to…" Dumbledore was closing the distance between them, his concerned gaze focused on the trembling boy who looked, for all intents and purposes, like he would either collapse or else use what little reserves he had left and make a mad dash for the door.

"No! Don't you see? You're right, sir. I need to; I mean I should have done this ages ago! I could go be with Sirius, that might work; I could go into hiding with him…"

The Headmaster had reached Harry and his hand gentled onto the distraught boy's shoulder, intending to offer whatever comfort he could to settle the panic which had taken hold. His touch had quite the opposite effect however – like a spark to a powder keg; the moment the weight of his hand settled Harry reacted, jumping away and around to face the wizard. A bright copper vase began to vibrate against the wood of the spindle legged table it was perched upon beside them, the buzzing of ringing metal drawing the Headmaster's momentary, assessing eyes.

"No! I'm putting everyone in danger! If he knows I'm not here he'll look elsewhere, sir. He will, you've got to see that! I'll be ok, honest, Sirius will keep me safe and…"

"Enough!" Not a bark by any means, and certainly containing no anger, but Dumbledore's raised voice was forceful and surprising enough to achieve its aim – stopping Harry's escalating panic. The breathless boy before him stared with wide, still damp eyes, his chin wobbling slightly in reaction before he appeared to press his lips together to control it. The hum of vibration coming from the table ceased abruptly as the accidental magic Harry was unintentionally projecting dissipated.

"That is enough, Harry. You have misunderstood my words and leapt into conclusions which are doing little but upsetting you further. You will not leave this room until I have had a chance to explain, and you have calmed down."

A bubble of protesting words pressed against Harry's throat, but the Headmaster tilting his head to gaze quite seriously across his glasses at him had him swallowing them uncomfortably, remembering the scene in the hallway. He instead lowered his gaze to the flagstones at his feet, letting the trapped air within his lungs escape in a breath which hitched and wobbled past his aching throat.

Satisfied that he had, for the moment at least, calmed his student, the Headmaster shuffled back to the visitor's chairs in front of his desk and eased into one, his eyes never leaving the boy standing unsure and unsteady in the middle of the room. "Please sit, Harry."

A moment passed, wherein the Headmaster had a flicker of doubt as to whether his invitation would be rejected, before he watched, relieved, as Harry appeared to sag before dragging his feet towards the desk. He dropped onto the chair exhaustedly, his panic obviously sapping the last of his energy.

"Voldemort, Harry, despises everything and everyone who oppose him, his beliefs and his vision for the magical community. You are far from his only target. He would happily strike down scores of witches and wizards if he thought it would further his campaign." Harry reluctantly lifted his face to the wizard sitting before him, his need to be reassured and soothed of his worries apparent as he focused on the quiet though solemn words directed at him.

"You must realise that despite his interest in you, there is a far greater picture to his motives – the complete and total control of the wizarding world. You removing yourself from this school, your friends and those who care for you will not impact upon his agenda, save from making it easier for him to achieve once you have stripped yourself of any and all protections these things currently provide for you. When I said that Tom will not cease his attempts on those you care for because you have now chosen to distance yourself, I did not mean to imply that you had inadvertently placed those you care about in danger. I can assure you that, present or not, connected or not, Voldemort will target them regardless, as he views all of us who oppose his beliefs as equal enemies."

Dumbledore's level, gravelly tone carried the weight of his conviction, the wisdom of his words seeping like cool cleansing water through the turmoil of guilt and responsibility which had triggered such sudden panic in Harry.

"After what transpired last term, I can understand your desire to separate yourself from normality however – how, after all, can anyone know what it is you feel? The despair? The fear? The guilt, Harry?" Harry's mouth twisted in reaction to the truth of Dumbledore's words, the vocalisation of his deepest feelings leaving him feeling uncomfortably raw and exposed.

"But I told Cedric to take the cup…." He finally managed, the words emerging somewhat broken. The Headmaster nodded, leaning forward to gaze earnestly at his glassy-eyed pupil, his voice gentling even further now that the honest reasons for the boy's behaviour had been drawn out.

"None us of knew what would transpire, Harry. Not me, or the officials or any of the competitors or staff. And certainly not you, my boy. You performed a noble and admirable act in offering to share the prize with Cedric, and I am proud of your actions in doing so. Voldemort's scheming and plots, though tragic and diabolical, were not your fault. Cedric's death is not your fault. Tom's return to human form is not your fault. You are needlessly bearing guilt for actions and events which you had no hand in and indeed were equally victim to; guilt which you are allowing to consume you to such a degree that is it now having a detrimental effect on your health, friendships and wellbeing."

It was a fair assessment, Harry knew, but it still hurt to hear. He was certainly no match for Death Eaters, to say nothing of Voldemort himself. But the feelings Dumbledore had mentioned had been his sole companions the whole summer holiday, and they had festered deep within him in his isolation. Bone weary, Harry simply nodded his head to acknowledge he had listened to the Headmasters words. He had neither the energy nor inclination to begin to process them, though simply hearing them was enough to settle something within him.

"I believe I once told you that it is our choices which define us, Harry. Your friends have made the choice to stand by you, to side with the light and castoff the vision Tom has for our world. As with you, so too do your friends have the right to make such fundamental decisions. It is their choice, not yours, Harry. You do them a disservice, albeit with the best of intentions, by attempting to turn away from them."

Put that way, Harry could hardly deny it. Dumbledore was right. He knew his friends well enough to understand that had fate decided differently and he himself were not somehow central to the dark events unfolding, Ron, Hermione and indeed most of Harry's friends would still actively oppose the Dark Lord's regime. As though sensing he had finally gotten through to the thoughtful boy before him, Dumbledore sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his lap, his expression once again peaceful.

The silence between them was calm, but Harry still felt the need to say something regarding his behaviour – now that clarity had partially returned to his thoughts. He glanced through his fringe, relaxing somewhat at the open and understanding gaze being levelled at him.

"I really am sorry, sir, about before." He finally hushed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees – as though the effort to remain upright was unduly taxing. Dumbledore's assessing gaze felt to Harry as though he were being x-rayed, as though every secret and hidden feeling were being drawn to the surface for the Headmaster to read at his leisure. A feeling made real when the wizard finally answered, a fleeting expression of concern flitting across the wizened face.

"I have already accepted your apology, Harry, and further understand your reasons for such behaviour. Let us think no more on it. Rather, I believe it may be a better use of our time to address the other concerns I have. You haven't been taking very good care of yourself, my boy." A blush arose on Harry's cheeks at the softly delivered observation and he worked hard to repress the automatic surge of denial and defensiveness which followed swiftly on its heels.

"M'ok." He muttered, looking to his twitchy hands as he forced his body to sit back straight on the chair. Dumbledore, not allowing the space to lengthen between them, mirrored Harry's previous position as he peered intently at the uncomfortable boy.

"It is not a criticism. Nor is there any shame in admitting that you have not been at your best, Harry. It is understandable that you have had difficulty following what transpired."   
Dumbledore's words were infused with such raw concern and obvious care that Harry felt his eyes prickle in reaction. He firmed his jaw against it and shifted against the hard wood beneath him, rather fed up of his seesawing emotions.

"I'll talk to Ron and Hermione again." He agreed, hoping to stave off any further observations. He wasn't sure why he was feeling defensive, especially as he could plainly hear and feel the concern behind the words, but the feeling of uncomfortableness persisted and Harry was suddenly keen to draw an end to this meeting.

"A good start, Harry, I agree. Your friends are a source of comfort and strength to you and I've no doubt you will benefit from resuming your close ties to them. As, no doubt, will they." Harry risked a glance upwards, nodding to show he agreed with the assessment. When Dumbledore drew breath to speak again however, Harry jumped in quickly, eager to stop whatever the wizard had to say next.

"I should get back to the dormitory, sir; I've got homework to finish." He suggested, leaning forward to stand from the chair. Three fingertips resting on his knee had the effect of an anvil weighing him down however, as he froze in his actions and swallowed uneasily, his arms crossing his chest tightly.

"You wish to escape these truths, Harry, and I can empathise. But as a child in my care I cannot allow it to continue. You are weak with lack of sleep and poor nourishment – both of which, whilst dangerous to your health singularly, also affect your concentration, your ability to reason to say nothing of your magical stability. Now, resuming your friendships will help, but as for the others I must insist that you allow me to assist you, Harry. It is not weakness to seek aid when you need it – rather it is a sign of maturity and good sense."

The fingertips which had held Harry immobile were removed as Dumbledore sat back, having obviously said his peace. Harry couldn't deny the accusations, he knew. One only had to look at him to know that peaceful sleep was a distant memory and the bagginess of his robes was camouflaging a thinning body. And he was just so tired; tired of the endless stress and despair, tired of hiding, tired of thinking. It was all just so exhausting. In the seconds that had passed, Harry's arms had dropped from their rigid defensiveness and fallen to his lap. He lifted his hands to rub away the sting in his eyes before sighing, resigned it seemed to the inevitable.

"What do you want me to do?" he finally asked, his dull shadowed eyes bleak as they met the Headmasters.

"Trust me, Harry. Can you do that?" Dumbledore asked gently, his face creasing with kindness as he awaited a reply.

Looking at the familiar, comforting features of the older wizard, Harry simply nodded, an unexpected feeling of relief sweeping through him as he finally accepted the help he had unknowingly needed. The smile he received in response held both relief and pride, making Harry glad he had caved to the Headmaster's demands.

"As much as I know you loathe the Infirmary, I would ask that for this evening and tonight at least, you avail yourself of one of the beds. Rest assured that Madam Pomfrey, excellent Mediwitch though she is, will not be disturbing us. You require assistance sleeping, something I am more than happy and able to help with Harry, but I fear your friends may not appreciate my presence in the dormitory any more than I would have appreciated my Headmaster breaching such a sacred space when I was your age." Dumbledore's moustache twitched in humour as he spoke, which took away some of the annoyance Harry had initially felt when talk of sleeping in the infirmary had come up. Merlin knew he had spent enough time there without submitting himself to a night voluntarily!

"Now, seeing as we both missed dinner, what say we enjoy the fruits of the elves' labours? Is there anything in particular you would like?" Dumbledore tried, standing from the chair and taking a moment to stretch what were obviously sore back muscles. Harry winced slightly in sympathy. Honestly, food was the last thing Harry wanted, despite the conversation he had just had. He didn't want to disappoint the Headmaster though by falling at the first hurdle. His indecision must have shown.

"Perhaps something light, Harry? A broth? My mother always maintained that chicken soup contained mystical healing ingredients unknown to wizard or beast when I was a child. She would strain the broth from supper's boiled chicken whenever I was sickly, insisting that it held more in the way of healing properties than any potion from old Mr Woolpucker's apothecary." Harry couldn't help the smile that lifted half his face, hearing a rare snippet of Dumbledore's childhood. It occurred to him that apart from what was published on his chocolate frog card and the general gossip from his peers- he really didn't know that much about his Headmaster.

He was snapped out of his thoughts as, with a wave of Dumbledore's wand, a small round table complete with table cloth, cutlery, glasses, napkins and condiments appeared in the middle of the office, two cushion covered chairs spinning into existence a second later. No sooner had this been accomplished than twin bowls of steaming broth and a large basket of bread materialised, leading Harry to suspect that Dumbledore must have planned this all along.

"There. That should do us nicely, I think. Come, Harry, take a seat. I can almost guarantee that you will feel more yourself after a significant portion of that excellent meal finds its way to your grumbling stomach." Harry's stomach was making noises, and no wonder - the fragrant steam from the heavy bowls carried the tempting aroma of chicken and leek which mingled with the mouth-watering scent of freshly baked bread.

Making his way to his appointed seat, Harry watched as Dumbledore filled both glasses with pumpkin juice from a carafe before sitting himself, taking a moment to place his linen napkin across his lap before reaching for the warm bread. Harry mirrored the Headmaster's table etiquette, but reached for the highly shined spoon rather than the basket.  
The steam fogged his glasses slightly as he stirred the broth, its pale, cloudy surface interrupted by flashes of spring green and bone white as he stirred the contents. "Please try some, Harry. The elves have truly out done themselves." Dumbledore encouraged, thoroughly engaged though he was in slathering the slab of fluffy bread held in his hand with butter.

It transpired that the Headmaster was, unsurprisingly, correct. After the first few hesitant spoonfuls, Harry's absent appetite had flared brightly, allowing him to enjoy over two thirds of the soup before his recently neglected belly began to complain. When he finally sat back from the table, he was alarmed by the fatigue that seemed to roll across him – his eyes blinking heavily against the blurriness of the room. A huge yawn was quickly covered by his hand, but not before garnering the Headmasters attention.

"Let's get you settled, Harry."

Harry didn't complain this time when Dumbledore wrapped a hand around his bicep, truth be told he wasn't entirely convinced he would manage the walk unaided. Exhaustion smothered almost everything, including his usual streak of independence which would normally resent such coddling from his teachers - or any adults really. It was a sign of his present state when he blinked rather stupidly at the floo powder being held out to him – as though wondering what on earth he was supposed to do with it. "Perhaps not the best idea, considering. Come along, my boy." Dumbledore seemed to reconsider his earlier offering and instead pulled Harry to his side and, after throwing a handful of glittering dust, pulled him into the green flames which erupted.

It was nice, Harry absently decided, to floo with someone else. Dumbledore's steady presence beside him and his arm across his shoulder blades made the short, spinning journey considerably less turbulent than was typical and the best part was that he remained on his feet once they arrived in Madam Pomfrey's office. Wasting no time, Dumbledore gently pulled Harry from the office and left him standing at the foot of the last bed. Harry watched blearily as the wizard drew back the neatly tucked blankets before stooping to fish in the bedside cupboard before finally emerging with a standard pair of blue striped pyjamas in his hand.

"These should suffice for tonight. I'll retire to the office for a moment and allow you to get changed, Harry." Harry nodded, watching as the Headmaster arranged the old fashioned privacy screens to hide the bedstead from view of the rest of the hospital wing which was, Harry belatedly noticed, thankfully empty. Once Dumbledore had retreated, Harry sunk onto the bed and toed off his trainers. The rest of his dusty clothes followed suit, coming to rest in an untidy heap at the bottom of the bed. Pyjama clad at last, Harry wasted no time in climbing under the cool sheets, the softness of the pillow beneath his cheek enjoyable despite the fact his glasses were digging rather painfully into his temple.  
He honestly couldn't recall being quite so tired before. He was almost tempted to believe that the wily Headmaster had spiked his soup with dreamless sleep, but knew of course that that was highly unlikely; and unfair.

A metallic squeak of stiff wheels moving had him glancing to the side in time to see Dumbledore return the screen to its previous position. The Headmaster smiled at seeing Harry recumbent, but said nothing as he quietly lifted the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed and proceeded to fold them into a neat pile which he laid on the bedside table. His discarded trainers were likewise lifted and laid, side by side, out of harm's way. Harry watched the domestic actions with a pang of sadness, wondering if this was what it was like to have a real parent take care of you.

Pulling the visitors chair close the bed, the Headmaster finally sank into it with a sigh of contentment and rested his warm gaze on the sleepy boy staring back.

"An enchanted sleep will ensure a much needed rest, Harry, without resorting to powerful potions which can have unwanted side effects. The process is simple, really, and completely harmless in and of itself. It is dependent on a level of trust between the castor and the recipient – as the person who is enchanted is practically defenceless whilst under and completely dependent on the castors protection and counter spell to wake after the allotted time. Do you understand?"

Harry tried to nod, but his head had sunken too far into the feathers of the pillow to make it really possible. "Yes, sir. You have to put me to sleep and then wake me up. S'ok." He finally replied, giving his consent.

"Do you have any questions?" Dumbledore asked after a moment, leaning forward and laying his wand on the side of the bed. Seeing it made Harry, unaccountably, a little nervous, though he knew consciously that he would come to no harm with this wizard.

"Will I still, umm, dream?" he asked quietly, unsure why the Headmaster knowing he suffered horrendous nightmares should embarrass him, except that it was one more thing he was struggling with. One more weakness – in his mind.

"No, Harry, you will not be troubled with….dreams. Rather it will be as though no time has passed at all when you wake. What we hope to achieve is to give your body and mind a chance to rest, truly rest. I will be here with you while you slumber, my boy, and will ensure that you are peaceful."

Harry frowned at that, going so far as to prop himself up on a shaky elbow. "You can't really mean to stay here all night, sir. You've got to sleep too!" Harry complained, his earlier fatigue forgotten as his mind caught up to what the Headmaster was saying. Harry's frown became more pronounced when Dumbledore gently shook his head, the evening light from the high infirmary windows catching the whiteness of his hair.

"I, unlike you, have other ways of catching up on sleep, Harry. Believe me when I say that one night without rest will hardly inconvenience me. You, however, are, despite your objections, a child still. It is sleep which facilitates your growth, both physical and magical, to say nothing of the multitude of other benefits it brings. I'm afraid I shan't argue this with you, you need to rest and it is my duty as well as my pleasure to ensure you get it. Now, lie down." Disgruntled but sensing the resolve in the Headmasters tone, Harry thumped back down to the pillow and huffed out a breath. The covers being tugged back up over his shoulder brought him out of his temporary snit, and he focused again on the paternal actions so completely foreign to him.

Once adequately covered, Dumbledore shifted to the edge of his seat and lifted his wand. "The spell is intended to be gentle, so you will drift off to sleep gradually rather than simply falling unconscious. Are you ready?"

Nervous again, Harry twisted his hands within the folds of the blanket and hesitantly nodded, his eyes flicking from the Headmaster's face to the wand held against the now warm covers. It felt wrong, somehow, to just lie there while an unknown spell was cast over him. Dumbledore paused upon seeing the shadow of fear in the teen's eyes, considering, before he finally leaned away to deposit his wand on the bedside table next to Harry's. When he turned back, Harry looked relieved but confused.

"Sir?" Harry asked, wondering whether the old man had actually changed his mind after all.

"It occurs to me that it may be somewhat disconcerting to have a wand pointed at you at present, which is certainly not conducive to a peaceful night's sleep. We'll try something else."

Harry watched, bemused, as the Headmaster shook his wide sleeve back towards his elbow and, coming to edge of his seat, leaned forward to smooth his palm across Harry's forehead. The static wash of magic he felt earlier came back full force, washing over and through him like a warm shiver, taking away any shock he had initially felt at the action. The dry heat and weight of the large hand felt…safe. He felt safe; he realised, and allowed his heavy eyes to slip shut as he relaxed into the comfort of the mattress and pillow beneath him.

Harry heard whispered Latin a moment later and felt the wash of wandless magic seep through him, causing him to catch his breath a little at the intensity of it. Dumbledore's magic felt familiar – like slipping into a well-used jumper which was warm, soft and bobbly with age. Harry could feel the spell taking effect. His muscles began to lose their remaining rigidity, his head felt like it weighed at least a few ton and his eyes, which he finally managed to crack open, felt swollen and dry with tiredness. Dumbledore's hand finally moved, running up through his wild fringe to rest atop his messy hair, whilst his other hand carefully plucked the glasses from his nose.

"Just relax, Harry. Let yourself rest."

Dumbledore's profile was blurry, making him look angelic in the dying light of the evening sun. His white hair and beard created a halo around him, his opulent robes only adding to the ethereal picture.

The hand atop his head moved slowly, a single thumb displacing his hair as it soothed back and forth across his scalp. A deep, slow breath filled his lungs, bringing the familiar scents of antiseptic and lemon. Harry's body was giving easily under the force of the magic and lulling comfort of Dumbledore's actions, but his mind was filled with snippets of their earlier conversation still. He rolled onto his side, bringing his knees up to form a small ball under the blankets, his body facing the visitor's chair.

"When I was, oh around fourteen years old I believe, I spent a night in this very bed, Harry." Dumbledore suddenly confessed, leaning back to sit properly on his chair. Blinking heavily, Harry couldn't stop his curiosity from being peaked. "What happened?" he asked, the hush of his voice carrying easily in the near silence of the long room. Stroking his beard, Dumbledore smiled in recollection as he lifted his chin, clearly searching his vast memory for the details.

"Ah, as I recall, Harry, I had myself been in an altercation with a boy called….my, what was his name? Alistair, Alistair McCoy, yes that was it. He was a sixth year, if memory serves, and quite the duellist, as I later found out. He also happened to be quite the prankster. One day in late autumn, I fell victim to one of his jokes." Harry was riveted, well as much as he could be while the spell slowly worked its magic upon him. All thoughts of his earlier conversation slipped away, replaced by visions of Dumbledore as a boy.

"What did he do?" he asked, finding it difficult to imagine the Headmaster as anything other than the old man he currently was.

"He charmed my transfiguration textbook to emit shrieking wails whenever I opened it, the first time being, unfortunately, in Professor Dippet's classroom. Thinking it was I who had deliberately set out to disrupt the class, the Professor assigned a detention after taking me quite sternly to task in front of the entire classroom."

"S'not fair." Harry commiserated, easily imagining the embarrassment that must have caused thanks to his own experiences in the potions classroom.

"I thought so too, which is why I set out to confront him after classes. I was arrogant in my youth, Harry, believing, thanks to my affinity for magic, that I was destined for great things. I waited outside the great hall for him that evening, my friends doing their utmost to convince me to forget it, which in hindsight was prudent council. Alistair, being older than I, didn't tend to socialise with the lower forms, though he had no qualms about making them the unfortunate victims of his jokes. For that reason I didn't actually know him very well, though I knew that despite his penchant for mischievousness he was fairly well regarded within the house."

Harry nodded slightly to show his attention, though the movement was barely perceptible as lethargy crawled through him.

"By the time be appeared, quite a crowd had amassed as word of our upcoming confrontation had spread throughout the school. In all honesty, I had originally intended only to give him a piece of my mind – but alas I was, like most teenagers, susceptible to the influence of my peers and to save face, I submitted to their demands that I teach him a lesson."

Dumbledore chuckled in memory, the scalloped creases around his eyes tightening with humour.

"In the end it was I who learned the lesson, Harry. Bolstered by the enthused crowd and with adrenaline making me dizzy, I fired off the first spell. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately I should say, my control wasn't developed enough to cope with the power I threw into it. The curse went awry, luckily missing both Alistair and the onlookers and instead, collided with the wall behind them. I managed to damage stonework which had stood for centuries, creating a chasm the size of you my dear boy. Alistair McCoy, though perhaps not as powerful as I, had been top of the duellist club for three years for good reason. After witnessing the damage my curse created, knowing that it was intended for him, he had every right to respond in kind. By this point I was so shocked at my actions that all thoughts of defending myself were the furthest from my mind. Alistair, however, was a level headed sort. In truth, he sent a simple tripping hex my way and I stumbled, catching my foot on my school robe on the way down. My landing against the stone was awkward, as it was I was lucky not to have snapped my wand as well as my right ulna."

Breathing deep and even, Harry could only blink in ever increasing frequency as he listened to the gravelly, comforting voice.

"I spent a painful night under the disapproving eye of the school matron, the Skele-grow repairing my bone if not my wounded pride. Alistair was later lauded for his restraint whilst I had the pleasure of serving detention for the following three weeks. The long night in this very room had been enough, however, to show me the error of my ways. It was a very long time before I challenged anyone at wand point again."

Dumbledore smiled, both in memory of his long ago school days and at the sight of Harry, breathing deep and even in sleep, his features finally peaceful. Leaning forward, ignoring the pangs of complaint from old bones too long in the one position, the Headmaster adjusted the blanket to more fully cover the hunched, pyjama clad shoulder exposed to the cool castle air. He allowed one final sweeping stroke across the boy's untamed, very Potter-like hair before easing himself upwards, the twilight colours of an evening well underway greeting him as he reached one of the wide windows.

It was a cool, clear night, the first stars becoming visible against the deep purple skies overhead. The distant horizon, distorted by the peaks and slopes of the magnificent Scottish mountains, was slashed by fiery red and cerise pink, the sun's colourful farewell and promise to return. The familiar grounds were bathed in fledging moonlight, patches of lake water glinting like liquid mercury against the blackness of the forbidden forest. Tendrils of welcoming smoke rose from the chimney in Hagrid's hut, the warm, yellowed light spilling from windows whose glass was obscured by whatever recent game the half giant had hung to use as kibble or bait.

The familiar, comforting sights should have been just that, but Dumbledore's expression was sombre as he looked into the distance, his mouth set in a grim, resolute line.

"You will not defeat him, Tom. Nor will I allow him to destroy himself. You will be stopped, defeated, overcome….."

Had anyone else been present, other than an unconscious Harry, they would no doubt have been disturbed. Talking to oneself was not unheard of, of course – especially when one was considered either brilliant or eccentric (or both, as in Albus' case) slightly more concerning was any mention of The Dark Lord of course. But what would have alarmed most was the sheer power emanating from the usually self-contained Headmaster. The air around him appeared distorted, alive with crackling energy that looked to be seeking a target. Eyes which were usually twinkling with mischief and knowledge instead sparked with resolve and energy, an ethereal brightness to them that could only be achieved through raw magic.

"You will lose. Everything. Harry will live on, when we are both of us in our graves. I will give him the tools to be everything you are not, and he will flourish."

Whether Dumbledore's impassioned speech was heard by the intended audience, or else simply for the old man's peace of mind was unsure. Slowly, the energy around the wizard was drawn back, contained, a mere reminder of the vast well of power that was leashed behind the iron will of a man who had learned, from the age of fourteen, that losing one's control often led to unforeseen outcomes.

Sighing deeply, Dumbledore turned away from his reflection and slowly walked the short distance back to Harry's bedside. Already, the peaceful state he had left the boy in was being disturbed by slight twitches and tics, a true sign of the power of the boy's night terrors, which were able to break through the, admittedly weak, enchantment he had cast; weak, so that if the worst were to happen, someone other than he could break Harry from sleep. Taking a moment to conjure a more comfortable chair, the Headmaster sunk into the cushioned depths, resting tired muscles for a moment, before leaning forward and taking the teen's clenched hand, carefully unfurling straining fingers until he could hold it properly.

"Peace, Harry" he whispered, his thumb stroking small circles. Almost immediately, Harry quieted, mumbling something unintelligible before growing quiet again.

And so it continued, throughout the evening, night and early hours. Harry would periodically twitch, whimper or sometimes cry out, even lash out – as in one occasion- and each time Albus would reach for the distressed teen, soothing the unconscious upset until the boy settled and slept deeply once more. Dumbledore knew the boy would remember nothing of these occasions, of course, which was for the best. Merlin knew the child harboured enough guilt.

Between bouts, the Headmaster had taken the time to plan Harry's recovery and return to full health. He knew he would have a battle; Harry, when not worn down by exhaustion, was as stubborn as he was independent. To say nothing of the Evans' temper the boy had apparently inherited! But he was counting on their earlier confrontation to have instilled a little well placed caution in the boy – of course he didn't want him cowed or frightened, quite the opposite! – But there was a difference between that and a healthy fear of reprisals for misbehaviour or disrespect. Either way, he needed Harry's co-operation.

All of that, of course, could wait until sunrise. Already the skies outside were changing, the silhouette of black mountain tops stark against the clear violet sky. The trees of the forest were heavy with their summer boughs, the morning dew glistening on fat leaves in the delicate dawn light.

A new day, full of possibility, of chances and changes, challenges and victories. 

A day to make a difference, in even the smallest of ways.

Soon, Harry would wake, and they would face whatever came, together.

End

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Your comments would make this insecure writer very grateful!


End file.
